


the wool of a black sheep is just as warm

by snow_and_dirty_rain



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Smut, One Shot, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15128774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snow_and_dirty_rain/pseuds/snow_and_dirty_rain
Summary: Just a quick John Seed drabble.





	the wool of a black sheep is just as warm

I'm already ensconced in the sheets of his bed when he enters the room – the lights turned off, everything quiet. The only noise the whispers of the cicadas and the grass outside the ranch. Somewhere ever distant, the ripple of water as it slips over rock. Everything looks blue and cool, like some secluded lagoon, and when the door opens a square of golden light is thrown across the wall. I sense the light and blink my bleary eyes open, gaze hazily focusing on the silhouette I'm coming to learn so well. He opens the door so quietly, evidently intent not to wake me, that I smirk to myself under the covers. Curl into a ball under the silk and let my eyes fall shut again. There's no need to watch him – he'll bother me in mere moments to come.  
“So beautiful.” I hear him mutter, words soft on the air. I hear him take off his shoes, the slip of silk on leather as he lets his waistcoat fall onto the couch. I cheat and open one eye a sliver as he unbuttons his shirt, toes off his socks, his tanned skin luminescent in the scarce light from the door left open a crack. I drink in the sight of him as if it's something foreign – I had no idea two days could feel so laboriously long.  
Golden light slopes across his toned shoulders, his tattooed back marked with deep, angry scars. His back to me, my heart feels aching with the desire to hold him. Every time he strips himself of his shirt I remember the boy that man used to be – the boy who couldn't defend himself, who watched buildings burn, who moved from home to home. The man who sometimes went still as his eyes fell on his kitchen tiles over his morning coffee.  
I knew the cartography of the trauma like my own face, and my memory overlays his past with mine, noting the symmetries. The similarities. “Why is it always in kitchens that they do it?” I remarked to him once, with his head on my chest. He managed to laugh, then, despite the tears. We both knew the answer. It was because the kitchen tiles were the hardest.  
He turns and, paralysed by him, I forget the rules of my own self-inflicted game, keeping my eyes open. He cocks his head, and my heart begins to drum in my chest. His eyes sear blue and predatory in the darkness, and I don't see him grin – I feel it. Like a moth fluttering in my chest.  
“You couldn't sleep without me, then?” He whispers, advancing to sit on the edge of the king-size bed. I bite back the urge to giggle – which seldom happens without John in the room – and draw the covers up over my face. All he does is come sit by me and my cheeks suddenly feel scorching hot. I shake my head, embarrassed.  
His laughter is soft as he leans forward, an elbow each side of my body, sinking his weight atop me and effectively pinning me to the bed. Possessive. All-consuming. He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead and I find my laughter bubbling over this time, squirming as he begins to work the covers off me.  
“Did you miss me that much?” He croons, wrapping his arms around my now-exposed waist and peppering my neck with kisses.  
“It felt like a whole week.” I manage to utter as he lavishes my throat with attention. “It was hell.” I add, even softer.  
“What's this?” He runs the soft blue silk through his fingers, luminous as water in the darkness.  
“It smelled like you.” I confess as he slides a hand over one of his own shirts, just long enough to reach the top of my thighs, only several buttons still fastened. His eyes devour my exposed thighs, my chest, before meeting my gaze. The smile I'm met with is soft, but the way he looks at me promises something else entirely. “You don't mind, right?” I know he doesn't. I just want him to say it out loud.  
“The only thing that'd make me happier is if you were wearing nothing at all.” He's kneeling over me now, still semi-clothed, slowly working his fingers over the remaining buttons, intent on seeing me, claiming me, all over again. “See, this is why I should buy you lingerie.” He beams.  
“John-”  
“You'd look so fucking pretty.”  
“That's some shady-ass sugar daddy behaviour right there-”  
“Surely that doesn't bother you.” He scoffs. “Hmm? Not after everything we've done together.”  
I bite my bottom lip, hands wandering despite my best endeavours – sliding over his taught forearms, feeling his biceps. Committing every inch of him to memory.  
“Okay.” I cave, thinking of the glee it would bring him. Being able to choose what I wear, to buy it for me – that was the kind of thing that made his jeans tight, I was already certain. He'd definitely gloat about it around his brothers.  
“What was that?” Captures my lips in a heated kiss, pressing his arousal into the silk between us.  
“Yes. Please.”  
And he begins grinding into me, jeans rough against my exposed cunt. He's needy, humming with energy, and it almost steals the breath from my lungs. Balls the silk of his shirt up in his fist as he drags it roughly off of me, the balmy night air flush with my naked skin. The charming facade he wears so well is beginning to slip, his eyes lidded as two fingers greedily curl knuckle-deep inside me.  
“Say it again.” The words warm my throat as he hisses them, voice breaking.  
“Please, John. Need you to fuck me.” I blame those fingers for coaxing the words out of me – like his words, they tease and coil and extricate from me everything he wants. Confessions. Kisses. Praise. Tears. In bed, he's a chameleon, one minute wide-eyed and pliable as I ride him with his hands tied to the bedpost, the next wild and searing as he drags his nails over my breasts and makes me beg for release. It's not uncommon for me to cry during particularly intense sessions – the kind that leave bedclothes in a gnarled heap on the floor and cum dripping down my thighs – and he shushes and chides me as he kisses away my tears.  
The worst part is how I love it. The tumult like a roaring ocean and the transient moments where his blue eyes go glassy and he holds me, kisses my hair and laces his fingers with mine. On nights where the sex doesn't obliterate my ability to think, we'll hold half-asleep conversations that span countless hours. He whispers things he swore to keep secret, and in return all he asks of me is that I pour my past into his ears.  
He spreads me open around his fingers and whispers things that make my toes curl and my cheeks flush. I'm not surprised when he excitedly pauses in fingering me to withdraw a length of rope from a bedside drawer, pressing his cock against my ass as he ties me down to the bedpost. He's fascinated by shibari, but some nights his need exceeds his curiosity and he merely straps me down so I'm easier to fuck. Tonight is one of the latter.  
Only two days have elapsed and he's aching to claim me again, torturing my clit with his ruthless, deft fingers as he rocks into me. Slow at first, teasing and salacious, and I find myself raising my ass off the bed to try and accommodate more of him.  
“What a desperate little slut you are.” He hisses, lips at my cheek, chest singing against the skin of my back. “Tell me how much you missed me, princess.” Oh, god. My hips jerk at the familiar pet-name – one he established for me long ago, when he found it made me blush even when I had the barrel of an assault rifle pointed at his head. When he would strap me unwillingly into a chair and lament about sin, he used the word like a weapon. He was adept at finding exactly what buttons to press in order to completely unravel a person. I was no different.  
“I... missed you so much.”  
“Hmm?”  
“I couldn't stop thinking about you – the way you touch me, the way you sound-”  
One particularly rough pinch of my clit makes me cry out, tortuously close to orgasm, and he groans as he completely loses himself in me. Lips pressed to my hair, breathing coming hard and coarse.  
“I missed you too.” He whispers.  
The night air from the open window stirs the curtains, throws silvery shadows across the wall as he takes me and takes me, until our chests bead with sweat and my thighs quiver, wet with my own cum. His paints my cunt in pearly ropes. I can hardly stand. We decide that's enough, and his kisses melt on my skin this time, all the heat from them having dissipated into the air. His scent pressed into my skin again like a flower in a book. He goes to the bathroom, and when he comes back he slides into bed and draws me atop him. Lets me rest my leg on his, my cheek relaxed into the rise and fall of his sternum. His arm curls around my waist, fingers drawing patterns onto my skin. Despite my better judgement – despite all he has done, and what anyone says – I find myself smiling.


End file.
